Come To My Window
by fantazise
Summary: "Best friends," you hear. Before you know it, she leans in and places a soft kiss on your temple. She presses another one to your cheek bone. One in the hollow of your cheek. Another on the corner of your lips. "Best friends who do this."


This is my first attempt at anything worth reading, proceed as you wish :) also, sorry for typos or anything like that, please give feedback :) I drew inspiration from the bedroom scene in _Duets, _hence 'Come to My Window.' I do not own these characters or glee (though I wish I did because then Blaine would not exist) :)

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><p>It's a game. Sometimes you leave, sometimes she leaves. Fleeting kisses in a janitors closet, small fingertip touches in the halls. It's not <em>her <em>that scares you, it's what she does to you. Because of this, you have to go. Pull away and leave the janitor's closet thirty seconds after she does. Retract your hand before it starts to burn. The only time your heart isn't broken is when you're tangled up in her sheets, the window open wide and your heart wider. You can feel the crisp wind but she keeps you warm through the night.

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><p>A small chime emits from your bag as you were belting the final chorus of <em>Tears Dry On Their Own. <em>You extract your brand new iPhone (courtesy of Sue Sylvester) as you pull into the school parking lot. New Text Message: 7:53 AM. _I'm sick, _it reads. _Mom won't let me go to school. Love you, B. _It's signed with a heart.

You know that Mrs. P is not a strict mom, but she is a smothering one. At least to you, that is. Your parents were never in town for more than two weeks at a time. You know that if her daughter's temperature piked a little over the norm she'd keep her at home. It's because she loves her, but a part of you knows that she doesn't care because she simply believes that her daughter's grades couldn't plummet any less.

Your dark red convertible pulls into the McKinley High student parking lot with violent growls of the engine, causing heads to turn but quickly turn back after noticing the driver. One foot then another pops out from behind the door you and make a bee line for the front office. You give Mrs. Howard at front desk a twenty dollar bill and a death glare to mark you present for day.

Five minutes later, you're in the car again heading to the farmers market first to pick up some of that expensive French bread that she likes. After testing every loaf for freshness you selected one and bought it while it was still warm. Sick or not, she deserved the best of the best and your intentions were to give her just that.

You stop at home, pulling into your driveway with a screech. The house was empty like always. You changed into sweats and a tank and grab a jar of your mom's homemade strawberry jam on your way out. It's a family recipe. It's also her favorite. Within ten minutes, you're parked at her curb.

You know that she's home alone (aside from Tubs, of course), so you use the front door. The keys are kept inside one of the family's many potted plants. Her mom and dad are at work and you assume that Ashely is at school. Just you, her, and Tubs. Now you're in her kitchen and you set your bag down and pull out butter from the refrigerator. You know what goes in each cabinet and how every drawer is organized. _I could probably do this blindfolded, _you smirk to yourself. You pull out a knife, a plate, a water bottle, and tray, organize everything, and carry it up to her room.

The door doesn't open quietly and you pray it doesn't wake her, but she is already awake, propped up with a few pillows and some stuffed animals. She's watching an old episode of Pretty Little Liars and the light from the TV screen is bouncing off the baby blue walls. You know she loves the show, and you love it because she does. As you walk in, you are ironically greeted with Emily kissing Maya in a movie theater. She knows you're there because you can see a smirk creep up on her face. You shift your weight. Everything about the scene is intense, perfectly equipped with a coquettish underscore and blue shadows casting perfect light. If you weren't so uncomfortable right now, you'd probably stop to admire it. The bucket of popcorn falls from its place on Maya's lap and the girls don't seem to care.

Your eyes were torn from the screen as you remembered where you were. Not that you could forget, anyway. Even if Shay Mitchell were standing right here in front of you, beaconing you to a lesbian karaoke bar, you wouldn't be able to move. You are stuck here and you know it, the familiar smell of vanilla soap and light mint drawing you here for what could be forever.

You pivot to face her. A grin stretches upon her obviously dehydrated lips as she sees you, makeup free, stressed, and in love. You swear you heart skips a beat but also pounds a million miles an hour. She takes the water bottle you hold out for her from your hands and downs half of it without hesitation. You sit by her feet as she drinks, and you place the tray on the unoccupied side of the bed.

No words are exchanged as you reach over and begin to prepare a sandwich. A small slice of bread with a thin coat of butter and a thick coat of jam. You make sure to do it just right, because she gets queasy when there's too much butter on one slice. You know she's watching you as you proceed to cut that slice into little triangles, the way she likes it. Blood makes its way to your cheeks and you blush more than you thought an ethnic person could. You don't dare look up because you know you'd probably melt if you did.

You raise a triangle and her fingertips find yours as she takes the slice into her own possession. You watch silently. She raises the triangle to her lips and takes a small bite off the tip. Her tongue pokes out to lick off some jam from her top lip. She knows you were watching. She didn't say anything and you were thankful because you knew why. It pains you to know that she's afraid of you shutting her out. A smirk grows on her lips, though, and you begin to feel ashamed. You want so bad to divert the attention, to change the subject, but when you try, your words come out nervous and croaky which makes her smirk grow into a wide smile. You feel like she's enjoying your misery, but you know that she was just taking what she could get.

"How are you feeling?" You ask, and her smile clears your fogged up brain.

"Alright, I guess, I don't even think I'm really sick," She sounds just as croaky as you do, but you know it was for a different reason. "I'm glad you're here. It's weird not being able to see you in the morning." She pauses to take another bite out of her sandwich. "Thank you for all of this, and thank you for coming," she starts again. You smiled. You were at ease.

"Of course I would come," You say with as you slightly shrug your shoulders. "That's what best friends do." You move the tray to the bedside table and lay down in its place. You feel her fingers lacing through your own. Your hand is on fire.

"Yeah," she lets out with what looks like a sad smile. "Best friends." You watch the show for a little while, but you don't really follow along. You can't shake how ambiguous she sounds whenever you both have a conversation pertaining to your relationship. You wish so bad that it would've been her fault, that it was her cowardice and her anger, but you know it wasn't and that only makes you hurt more.

The show went on and you forgot how long you lay by her, hands intertwined. Aria freaked out about something to do with Ezra. Hanna and Caleb fought. Emily is _super_ gay and owns too many sporty outfits. You suddenly became very aware of your Lakers tank top and laugh a little at your own twisted comedy.

She turns her head, suddenly uninterested in the -A drama. You feel her gaze burn into your cheek.

"Best friends," you hear. Before you know it, she leans in and places a soft kiss on your temple. She presses another one to your cheek bone. One in the hollow of your cheek. Another on the corner of your lips. "Best friends who do this."

You are aching. You wouldn't have been surprised if firefighters were being dispatched put out the burning fire dancing along your skin. Everywhere she touched stung with pleasure and shame and longing. Your impulses kickstart. You turn your head to face her, pause, and your lips rush to meet hers in a frantic search for satisfaction. You could almost swear that they did that on their own.

Her lips lead yours in the dance. Your breath gets caught in your throat and that feeling in your stomach which you know all too well comes back. She moves like she hears music in her head. She then leans on her forearm and hovers over you, placing the other hand on the hollow of your cheek. Your bottom lip is caressed in between hers as and she runs her tongue along its length. Your lips part instinctively like they do only for her and you feel fireworks.

You begin to lose track of time. Five minutes, ten, twenty… you don't know. You don't think. You don't speak. You don't feel the tugging guilt you feel when you look at her. Right now, it's just you and her and the bedsheets and her hands and your lips, frantic, hopeful, and loving. Her hands go from your waist to your chest, her fingers start to trace you collar bones.

She pulls away and reattaches herself to your neck, kissing up and down, running her tongue over your sweet spots and sucking anywhere that'll make you moan. Your hands are everywhere and no where all at once. You're intoxicated and sweaty and so filled with lust but you've never been more relaxed in your life.

At first it's a growl but soon it's a full-fledged roar. Then it's silent. A door slams. Keys are jiggling in the front door, but she doesn't stop kissing you. "It's just my mom," she starts, reassuring you that it's not a big deal. Footsteps ascend the stairs. You can't breathe.

Maybe it's almost getting caught or maybe it's leaving her, but when you push the window open again you feel like your weighs as much as an elephant. Her bright eyes look like the overcast November sky.

You pause, turning to face her. "I'm sorry…" You breathe, and it's almost a whisper.

"You always are." She sighs. She knows. It hurts you that she understands. You'd hurt forever if it meant she'd never hurt again.

And you're out the window. Luckily, there's a tall tree right outside. Cliche, but useful. You begin to descend to the ground.

"Brittany? Who were you talking to?" Asks a familiar voice.

"You must've heard the TV." She says. Her voice sounds so sad. Your heart shatters.

"Oh. Okay, then. Get some rest."

"I'll try." You hear some shuffling and soon her beautiful faces comes to view from the window. You frown apologetically, but she remains empathetic. She gives you a shrug. You hate that she's used to this.

"I'm sorry," you say for a final time.

You are pulled out of your thoughts when the window closes with a slam.

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><p>You're back at home that night when you hear from her again. New Text Message: Brittany. 7:53 PM. <em>You leave me so often yet I still love you. I love you more than I love myself. I'd feel this forever if it meant seeing you at my window everyday. Please come to my window. <em>

Five minutes later, you do just that. This time, you stay.


End file.
